


A Pretty Good Bad Idea

by phoenixjean



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Romance, Smut, this plays pretty fast and loose with canon but w/e
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 20:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9288185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixjean/pseuds/phoenixjean
Summary: You’re not sure who initiated the kiss, but your arms are around his neck, and he has one of his looped around your waist, hauling you across to straddle his lap, and this is almost certainly a very bad idea, but it feels like the best bad idea you’ve ever had, so you don’t even try to stop him as he pulls your shirt over your head.





	1. Chapter 1

 “I hate school,” you whine, your head falling back against the headboard of Peter’s bed. “It’s stressful and I never get out and I really need to get laid,” you complain, and Peter laughs. You’re both sitting on his bed, leaning against his headboard and drinking vodka that you’re pretty sure he stole, but you can’t really be bothered to care where he got it from at the moment.

“Cheers to that,” He snickers, bringing the bottle to his lips, and you roll your eyes.

“You don’t get to complain about never leaving campus, Maximoff,” you retort, taking the bottle from him.

“Yeah, fair enough,” he agrees, and there’s a pause as you take a sip of the vodka, wincing slightly as the alcohol burns down your throat.

“Y’know, I think this is the first time we’ve been single at the same time,” you remark suddenly, and he shrugs.

“It’s not exactly recent, though. I’m pretty sure we’ve both been single for ages,” he points out offhandedly, taking another sip of the vodka, and you study him thoughtfully before reaching over to pull his face down to yours and kiss him. When you draw back, he looks understandably startled, and you pause, considering the kiss for a second, then shake your head slightly.

“Nothing,” you say. “You?”                                                                                                                                                         

“Yeah, no. Nothing,” he confirms, and you let out a huff of unsurprised resignation, leaning back against the headboard, aimlessly examining the posters on the opposite wall. There’s a long silence, and then Peter carefully puts the bottle of vodka down on the floor beside his bed.

“Wanna try again to make sure?” He suggests.

“Yup.” He tugs your lips to his, kissing you hard, and when you pull away, you’re both breathing a little shakily, your faces still very close together. “No?” You breathe, your eyes dropping to his lips and back up again.

“Nope,” Peter agrees, but neither of you pull back. Your tongue darts out, flicking briefly across your lower lip and then suddenly his mouth is on yours again, his hand tangled in your hair. You’re not sure who initiated the kiss, but your arms are around his neck, and he has one of his looped around your waist, hauling you across to straddle his lap, and this is almost certainly a very bad idea, but it feels like the best bad idea you’ve ever had, so you don’t even try to stop him as he pulls your shirt over your head. You reach down to yank his shirt up, tossing it to the side before threading your fingers through his silver hair, tugging his mouth back to yours.

Peter bites down gently on your lower lip, coaxing a breathy moan from your throat and he smirks before trailing hot, open mouthed kisses down your jaw and along your clavicle, sending sparks ricocheting through your body. You tighten your arms around his shoulders and roll, pulling him over on top of you as he fumbles with the clasp of your bra. You reach for the button on his jeans and he groans against your skin.

“Ugh- _shit_ -you sure?” He spits out, the words muffled by your neck, and you roll your eyes as you push his jeans down his hips before shimmying out of your sweatpants, because if he doesn’t touch you _right the fuck now_ , you think you might punch him. You roll your hips up against his, grinding deliberately against his cock, and his low answering growl makes you shiver in anticipation. He leans up to kiss you, hard and needy as he knocks your hands aside, pulling your panties off you before yanking down his boxers as you reach blindly for a condom in his nightstand. Peter hisses, bucking into your touch as you roll the condom on, then suddenly he’s sinking into you and you can’t _think_ anymore.  

“Fuck, Peter- _please_ ,” you moan, not really sure what you’re asking for, but as he starts to thrust, slowly at first but gaining speed, your head falls back against the pillows, because this feels like the best idea you’ve ever had. Your hands grip tightly at his shoulders, nails digging into the skin there as Peter drops his head to nip a path up your neck before claiming your lips in a searing kiss. One of his hands glides down your body, palming at your breast then continuing onwards, his knuckle brushing over your clit and making you writhe under him. The high, uneven moans falling from your lips would almost be embarrassing, but you’re too far gone to care as you clench around him, your orgasm cresting and tapering out, pulling Peter along with you, his choked, guttural moans muffled against your lips as his hips jerk erratically into yours, slowing and then stopping entirely. He pulls out of you, rolling onto his back.

“That was-” He starts, his voice a little unsteady. “That was quite something.” He breathes, and you just nod, doing everything you can to not think about what the fuck this might mean for your friendship, because yeah, it was incredible sex, but you really don’t want to sacrifice your best friend for getting laid on a one off. There’s a pause that stretches on for what feels like years, and you’re not sure whether you’re the only one who feels the tension in the air.

“We probably shouldn’t do this again,” you say, after a while, and you see Peter nod in your peripheral vision. “And it’s not gonna be weird or whatever tomorrow?” You ask.

“It’ll be fine,” he confirms, and you nod at him, decisively pushing any apprehensions you have about the night to the back of your mind, because how you deal with the fallout from fucking each other is a bridge you can burn when you get to it. There’s another long silence, and you let yourself just lie there for a few moments, mentally preparing to actually get up and return to your own room. Eventually, you sit up, retrieving your shirt from the floor beside his bed and pulling it on before sliding your sweatpants up your legs and grabbing your bra and panties.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” The words sound more like a suggestion than a statement as you get to your feet and head to the door. “G’night, Peter,” you say softly, before gingerly closing his door behind you, tiptoeing quietly back down the corridor.

You forgo a shower, feeling too tired to do anything other than pull on a clean pair of panties then pull your sweatpants back on and slide into bed, but the silence in your room is tense and oppressive, and though you’re physically exhausted, you don’t even try to sleep because you know it’s not going to happen. Your mind is racing, still considering whether or not you’ve just completely destroyed your friendship with Peter. It was undeniably fantastic sex, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want it to happen again, but he’s your best friend and even though you kind of want to _fuck_ him, you don’t want to _date_ him. Feelings are messy, and easily complicated, and you really, really like being Peter’s friend. You roll over irritably, gritting your teeth in frustration, because your train of thought is only going in circles, getting you nowhere and providing no solution. ‘ _It was just sex_ ’ you think. ‘ _Don’t let it be more than that. He’s your best friend. Don’t be a fucking idiot_.’

You don’t get much sleep that night, instead staring blankly at the ceiling and wondering what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes you forty minutes longer than it usually does to get out of bed the next morning, and you’re almost late to your first class because you spend an additional half hour convincing yourself that you _really_ can’t afford to skip science just because you sit next to Peter. You rush into the room just as the teacher begins to speak, sliding haphazardly into your seat. Peter slips you a sheet of paper with the assignment, and the gesture doesn’t feel any different than it did prior to last night, so you turn your mind to the work and think that _maybe_ the two of you have successfully pulled off the whole ‘ _no strings attached_ ’ thing. At lunch, you sit with Jean and Jubilee, and he sits with Kurt and Scott, and for the rest of the day, the two of you resolutely pretend that the night before had never happened. Maybe Peter hesitates before meeting your eyes, and maybe you feel so tense you could break bricks on your shoulders, but the two of you are acting like its fine, so it’s _definitely_ fine. Right?

* * *

A week has passed. A _normal_ week. At least, you’re pretty sure it’s been normal. The first day was fine, and so was the second, and by the third day, you had even managed to ignore the mounting tension at the back of your mind. Nobody asks any uncomfortable questions, or even says anything at all about how you’re interacting. The two of you eat lunch together and procrastinate your work and complain about training and the teachers, and everything is _fine_.

Tonight, you and Peter are the last ones left in the library, sitting near the back working on a hellish assignment for maths. More accurately, _you’re_ working on the assignment and Peter is making paper airplanes out of his notebook. After staring blankly at the same set of problems for what feels like the thousandth time and _still_ failing to understand it, you shove the worksheet away from you in disgust.

“Fuck this. Who needs to know about quadratic functions anyway,” you groan, flinging the pencil across the table in a fit of petty spite, and Peter laughs, putting down his latest airplane and glancing over at you.

“Not us?” He suggests, and you fix him with a stony glare.

“I’m doing all the heavy lifting here Maximoff, so shut your mouth. You don’t get to complain about this.” You snap at him, and he raises his hands in mock surrender. “We have to finish this assignment, and then I have a history project to start and I’m _exhausted_ , because Raven really put me the fuck through my paces in the danger room today, so I do not have time for your shit right now, okay?” You scrub a hand over your eyes in frustration, thinking maybe if you wish _really_ hard, the universe might see fit to obliterate any mention of calculus from the curriculum.

“You seem pretty stressed,” Peter remarks, his tone a little too nonchalant to actually mean anything even remotely casual.

“No,” you retort acidly, your voice utterly dripping with sarcasm. “I’m just bitching and moaning about my workload because I’m _really thrilled_ to have it. I _like_ being worked to the bone and having no real free time. It’s just _swell_.” He leans towards you slightly, and you suddenly notice that his hand is resting rather meaningfully on your knee.

“I could help you relax.”

“What?” The word slips out, because you _heard_ what he said and you _think_ you heard what he was implying, but your brain isn’t really processing it all that well.

“I said,” he breathes, leaning closer into you, his face scant inches from your own. “I could help you _relax_.” His hand drifts higher up your thigh, sliding past the hem of your skirt and emphasising his meaning, just in case the innuendo wasn’t blatant enough. Your focus slips entirely out of your control, slamming down to centre on the warm, heavy pressure of his hand on your leg, utterly forsaking rational thought.

“Okay.” The word escapes in barely a whisper, and the smirk Peter shoots you is almost _predatory_ as his fingers skim up the thin fabric of your panties, drawing a sharp gasp from you, before nudging aside the elastic and brushing lightly against your clit. As his fingers slide briefly against your folds, then push gently past them, curling rapidly inside you, you can’t stop yourself from leaning forwards against the desk as if bracing yourself, biting down hard on your lower lip in an attempt to muffle the low, strangled moans falling from your mouth. Peter’s thumb rubs small fast circles over your clit, making you writhe, your hand flying to cover your mouth while static fills your vision and your legs go weak as you come.

“Better?” He asks, sounding superior as he withdraws his hand from your panties, and if you weren’t feeling so thoroughly contented you might have considered punching him, but instead all you do is push your skirt back down your legs and smile lazily at him.

“Mmhm. Want me to return the favour?” You drawl languidly, leaning back in your chair and Peter actually gulps.

“What-what did you have in mind?” He responds, his tongue unconsciously darting out to wet his lips, and you quickly look around the library, checking to make sure the two of you are entirely alone. When you’ve confirmed that the library is completely empty, you smirk at him, sliding onto the floor as you push his chair back and reach for the button on his jeans.

“Something like this,” you purr, pushing his boxers down and running your fingers lightly up his hard length, coaxing a long groan from his throat.

“That sounds- _fuck_ -sounds good to me,” Peter manages to get out, his voice breathy and laboured, and you grin wolfishly up at him before closing your lips around his cock and taking him into your mouth. The low keening noise he emits is deeply satisfying, as you work your hand deliberately around the base, squeezing lightly and flicking your tongue over the crown. His hand is tight in your hair, and strings of senseless expletives are falling from his lips. His hips jolt suddenly, and he moans, long and needy as he comes, his breathing ragged and heavy as you swallow him down before wiping your mouth casually with the back of your hand and returning to your seat, retrieving the pencil you had flung earlier and focusing once more on the maths sets in front of you as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. An easy silence falls over the two of you as Peter re zips his jeans and you finish the final problem on the algebraic worksheet. You slide the paper into your bag, and as you pack up the rest of your things, you glance over at Peter.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” you remark offhandedly, tucking a pencil behind your ear, and he grins crookedly back at you.

“Yeah, you’re like, _crazy_ good at that. Like, it’s seriously impressive,” he replies, flushing slightly and you snicker.

“Well, what can I say. Sucking dick is my secret superpower,” you quip and Peter snorts in laughter, before abruptly growing serious again.

“But like, is this a _thing_ now? Like, we get each off?” He asks tentatively, and the question sounds stilted and awkward, like he’s nervous about actually discussing what just happened. You shrug with feigned indifference, despite the tension you can feel building at the base of your skull.

“Sure. I’m definitely not opposed to it,” you reply, and his mouth twitches in an incredulous smile.

“Wait, seriously?” The words seem to slip out unprompted, because when you look at him inquiringly, he hurriedly corrects himself. “Not that I’m not into it, _fuck_ , I’m _so_ into it. I’m just-surprised? I guess?”

“I mean, it seems to be working out pretty decently for us both. You’re _really_ good with your hands, and I’m _definitely_ interested in a source of orgasms other than my fingers, so I’m game if you are,” you say, and Peter responds immediately, nodding enthusiastically enough to make you chuckle. “But we should probably set some rules or something, if we’re gonna do this,” you say, and he frowns in confusion.

“Rules? Why?” He sounds utterly bewildered by the concept, making you roll your eyes in equal parts frustration and amusement, because ‘ _charge in blindly at top speed_ ’ seems to be Peter’s only way of approaching anything.

“Because I’d like to know exactly what I’m getting myself into, and what kind of arrangement or whatever we’re going to have,” you explain and he nods in understanding. “Okay, so we shouldn’t tell the others.”

“Yeah, definitely not. We’d literally never hear the end of it, holy shit,” he agrees emphatically

“This is a sex-only endeavour,” you continue, ticking the rules off on your fingers. “No dates, no romance, no nothing. Everything except the sex continues exactly as normal, okay?”

“Sounds reasonable to me.”

“And lastly, we call it all off if feelings or whatever get in the way,” you say decisively. “If one of us wants to date someone else, or keeping it a secret gets too complicated-”

“Or you fall in love with me,” Peter interrupts, grinning dopily, and you glare at him in mock irritation.

“Please. Let’s try to be realistic here,” you scoff. “But seriously, if this gets complicated for whatever reason, we call it off, deal?”

“Deal.” He holds his hand out to you, pinkie finger extended, and you hook your finger with his, giggling slightly, because in light of the agreement the two of you are shaking on, the childish gesture feels ridiculous. You shoulder your bag, rising from the table and heading for the door. Peter scoops up his own bag and goes after you. You both chat idly about your other classes and training progress on your way back to your respective bedrooms, and it feels so _normal_ it’s almost absurd. It’s good though. Normal is good.

When you reach his room, he glances over at you appraisingly, then slings an arm around your shoulders in a brief hug. It’s a small thing, but it’s somehow reassuring, though you’re not really sure what you needed reassurance about.

“Everything’s gonna be fine. We’re normal, well-adjusted people. We _got_ this,” he says, and he sounds so certain that you actually believe him.

“I mean, I don’t know if I’d go so far as to call you normal or well-adjusted, so…” you quip, jokingly, and Peter pulls away from you, putting his hand to his heart in feigned offence.

“How dare you. I am _incredibly_ normal and _remarkably_ well-adjusted.” He retorts, and you laugh.

“Liar,” you tease him, and he chuckles as he opens his door.

“Yeah, okay. You got me on that one. See you tomorrow.” He says, and you smile.

“See you tomorrow,” you reply before starting to walk down the corridor towards your room. You don’t make it more than a few feet before he stops you.

“Hey,” He calls after you. “Don’t fall in love with me, okay?”

“Don’t worry. I won’t,” you call softly back, watching as he retreats into his room and swings the door shut behind him before turning and continuing on to your own room.

The words already feel like a lie.


	3. Chapter 3

You wake up the next morning to a sharp knocking at your door. Rolling over groggily, you squint over at your alarm clock only to realise that you’ve overslept enough to miss breakfast. Swearing vehemently you slide haphazardly out of bed, rubbing at your bleary eyes as you go to see who woke you up. When you open the door, you’re confronted by an overly energetic looking Peter holding a large mug of steaming coffee and a donut.

“If those aren’t for me, I’m gonna punch you, Maximoff. Just so you know,” you inform him, still half asleep. He grins at you and holds the coffee and donut out to you.

“See? I’m the whole package, hot stuff. I can provide every kind of benefit, not just sex benefits,” he says smugly, and you roll your eyes so hard you’re surprised the force of it doesn’t knock you physically backwards.

“Okay, that’s a hard no to ‘hot stuff’ and also a no to terrible jokes like that about this whole endeavour. But definitely yes to you bringing me coffee and donuts. I like that part of your so called ‘whole package’” you retort, taking a sip from the mug and humming appreciatively. “Okay now beat it so I can get dressed.”

“Or,” Peter starts, his voice mischievous. “I could stay while you change,” he suggests, a shit eating grin spreading across his face. Your second eye roll of the morning is no less emphatic than the first one.

“Yeah, no dice hot stuff.  I’ll see you in Lit, in like ten minutes. I’m sure you can handle being separated from me for that long,” you quip, shutting the door firmly on his pouting face.

“Wait if I’m not allowed to call _you_ ‘hot stuff’, why are _you_ allowed to call _me_ ‘hot stuff’. That’s not equality,” he protests through the closed door, and you let out a huff of laughter.

“Because I’m the one who makes the rules, so I get to decided what goes. Now let me change in peace.”

The day is routine and normal and remarkably void of any mentions of your bizarre arrangement beyond his joke that morning. The two of you laze around with the rest of your friends and complain about your work and go to training in the danger room and meals and nobody says anything about how the two of you are behaving towards the other. You and Peter part ways to your own rooms that evening, and if it weren’t for the memory of the agreement the two of you had made the night before sitting insistently at the front of your mind, it would have been like any other day before sleeping together. 

* * *

The next morning you wake up at an unspeakably early hour. Sighing in frustration, you sit up abruptly in bed. You’ve been awake for the better part of an hour already at this point, unable to go back to sleep with another hour still left till you need to be up. Flicking on the lamp beside your bed, you consider your options. You could exercise, or do some of your unfinished work, or read in bed, but none of those ideas strikes you as even remotely appealing. You’re about to give up and pull a book out when your gaze falls on the mug Peter had brought you yesterday sitting on the edge of your desk and a much more enjoyable option presents its self. Sliding out from under your covers, you grab a hoodie from the back of your desk chair and pull it over your head as you tiptoe down the hall towards Peter’s room

When you get there, you knock softly before letting yourself in, closing the door quietly behind you. Across the room, Peter is stirring slightly, emitting faint noises of protest at being woken up.

“What’re you doing here?” He asks blearily as you walk over to his bed and start going through his night stand.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you reply distractedly, still hunting through the small drawer.

“But why’d you wake me up? I was sleeping just fine,” he complains, scowling at you.

“Because I was bored.”

“That’s a shitty reason. And I brought you coffee when I woke you up. _And_ a donut,” he retorts petulantly. You roll your eyes in amusement as you flick the drawer shut and look over at him.

“I think what I’m offering can top that,” you quip, holding up the condom you had fished out of his night stand, and Peter’s eyes go wide.

“Yeah your idea is better,” he agrees quickly, pushing back the covers and grabbing for the small foil packet in your hand. You pass it over to him before yanking your hoodie and pyjama shirt over your head and kicking off your panties and sweat pants. He quickly shimmies his boxers down his legs, ripping open the condom as he does so. You clamber onto the bed, straddling his hips and pushing him down gently as you take the condom from him and rolling it on. Peter bucks slightly at your touch, and you smirk at him.

“You still complaining about being woken up?” You remark in amusement, and he lets out a low strangled groan of frustration.

“Don’t be-ugh, _shit_ -so smug about it,” he manages to get out, breaking off in a needy moan as you sink slowly down onto his cock. You bite back a loud moan as you roll your hips slowly into his, leaning forwards to kiss him as his hands settle on your hips, urging you to move faster. The kiss is hard and rough and filthy as his hands grip your waist tightly, digging into the skin there. After a couple seconds to adjust, you start to move in earnest, grinding against him, breathy moans falling from your lips as he starts snapping his hips up to meet yours, hitting something inside of you that makes you writhe above him. Your nails are digging into his shoulders as you arch against him, the dim room filled with the sounds of soft moans and muffled sighs. You can feel yourself starting to clench around him, body tensing in anticipation of your climax and you let your head fall forwards against the crook of his neck, snaking one of your hands down between your bodies to rub quick circles over your clit, coaxing your orgasm closer and grinding down hard onto him. Peter’s grip on your waist tightens, hauling you closer against him as he thrusts up sharply into you, breath hot against your skin as he comes. You bite down on his shoulder to muffle your low, needy groan as you ride out your climax, seeing static as your muscles coil and relax responsively.

“Good morning, and you’re welcome,” you quip as you roll off him, still breathing hard.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of arrogant?” He grumbles, pushing the hair off his face and you grin at him playfully.

“You love it.” Checking the clock on his night stand, the glaring green numbers tell you that there’s just about enough time to shower before breakfast opens for the morning, so you sit up and swing your legs over the side of his bed, reaching down to slide your panties up your legs. “I’m gonna clean up then go eat, so you’re welcome to join me if you want, or you can go back to sleep. It’s whatever,” you say, retrieving your remaining clothes and pulling your hoodie over your head before rising to your feet and heading for the door.

He does join you for breakfast, the two of you making idle conversation and watching the other students filter into the dining hall as you eat, and later that morning as you head to the danger room to work with Raven, you decide that morning sex is probably your new favourite way to de stress before training. A couple days later, he eats you out in a supply closet before a physics test and the day after that you give him a handjob in the library while he’s supposed to be researching a history paper. No one has said anything to either of you and getting regular orgasms from something other than your own fingers has put you in an almost absurdly good mood.

One night a few weeks later, you and Peter are walking back from dinner when he suddenly pulls you into an empty classroom, abruptly pulling the door shut behind you before pushing you back against the wall, mouthing hotly at your neck, drawing a surprised laugh from you.

“Really? Here?” Your voice is almost embarrassingly breathy, rising in pitch as his teeth graze against the underside of your jaw. “I’m supposed to be studying with Jean in a bit,” you say, but it’s hard to focus on anything other than the way Peter’s lips are moving deliberately down your neck, pausing to nip lightly at your pulse and making your head tip back against the wall. “I swear to god, if you give me a hickey, I’m gonna fucking kill you,” you manage to get out around a moan, and he pulls back to smirk up at you, one of his hands slipping under the hem of your shirt as he leans forwards to kiss you hard. He wedges a knee between your thighs, parting your legs slightly and your breath catches in a sharp gasp. Peter takes advantage of your open mouth, biting gently down on your lower lip before mouthing insistently down along your jaw. “This is a bad idea,” you gasp as his grip on your waist tightens and his other hand starts to work its way up your skirt.

“The worst,” he agrees, nipping insistently at your earlobe and making your knees weak.

“We should stop,” you spit out, though the way you’re fumbling with his belt buckle and arching into his touch belies your words.

“Probably,” he hums against the skin of your neck, licking a delicate stripe along the hollow of your throat, and you’re about to say something, remind him that you’re supposed to be studying with Jean soon, that anyone could walk in at any moment when his fingertips press distractingly against the thin material of your panties and you have to bite down hard on your lip to try and muffle the loud moan rolling off your tongue.

“Still wanna stop?” Peter asks, grinning wickedly at you, and you’re not entirely confident of your ability to form coherent sentences, so you just grab the collar of his shirt and yank his mouth back to yours.

* * *

It’s urgent and sloppy and fast, so by the time you’ve made it back to your room, cleaned yourself up a little and grabbed your books, you’re barely running late to meet up with Jean.

“Sorry, I had a late dinner and lost track of time,” you explain, shutting the door to her room closed behind you. She looks up from her open psychology text book and shifts her notes to make room for you to sit beside her on the bed.

“It’s totally fine, not like you took forever about it,” she replies, brushing off your apology with a cryptic smile as she hands you a stack of palm cards with terms and definitions on them. “You wanna quiz me first? We can see how we do and then go from there.”

The two of you pore over the psychology notes for almost two hours, revising everything from phobias to the structure, and by the time you finish, you’re pretty sure that _your_ brain is no longer composed of several distinct sections and structures, but is now a completely _in_ distinct blob of fatty grey tissue sitting in your skull and doing absolutely nothing. You pick up one last set of notes and give them a cursory glance before deciding that you’re not going to be able to cram any more information in tonight and falling back on the bed with a sigh, casting the notes aside.

“Someone tell the Professor that I refuse to learn about memory as a reconstructive process on the grounds that I don’t want to,” you mumble somewhat incoherently, and Jean laughs, scooping up her half of the notes on the bed and setting them neatly on her desk before coming back to sit beside you again.

“Fair call. Loftus is boring and I’m ready to quit for the night. Let’s not even think about psychology till class tomorrow,” she agrees.

“I don’t think I’m gonna be capable of thinking at all until at least tomorrow,” you groan, hauling yourself up from your prone position to lean against the headboard of her bed. She stretches out next to you, propping her chin on her folded arms and giving you another enigmatic grin.

“Well then changing the subject to something _completely_ un academically related, how long have you and Peter been fucking?”


	4. Chapter 4

“How long have you and Peter been fucking?”

You bolt upright immediately, spluttering incoherently as Jean just grins at you in amusement, still reclining casually beside you as you flail for an appropriate response.

“How long have-I’m sorry _what_?” You manage to get out after the first initial shock has worn off.

“I mean, everyone else has been convinced that you two have been sleeping together or something for ages, but I’m pretty sure it’s new,” she remarks, and you just gape at her.

“It’s-we’re not-” you start, and Jean just rolls her eyes.

“You know lying to me doesn’t work, even when it’s a good lie,” she says, almost reproachfully. “And that, may I add, was definitely not a good lie.” You just groan, falling back against the headboard.

“Does everyone know?” You ask, rubbing tiredly at your temples, and Jean laughs.

“No-well, kind of, but they haven’t noticed any recent changes in your behaviour. Everyone’s thought you two’ve had a thing for months now, though,” she replies, and you glare at her.

“Yeah so you said,” you retort sarcastically, drawing another laugh from Jean. “It hasn’t been a thing for months though. It’s only been, like couple weeks or so,” you sigh, slipping down the headboard to lie beside her, staring up at the ceiling. “Don’t know why everyone’d think we had a thing before that, though. We were friends,” you remark idly, then frown, thinking. “Are friends. I think.”

“You think?” Jean comments, arching an eyebrow in surprise. “You two had the weirdest friendship before, but like, what’s the deal _now_?” At this, you glance over at her, startled.

“What do you mean, ‘weirdest friendship’? What was so weird about it?” You demand, and she rolls her eyes at you again.

“Wow, you really don’t see it,” she remarks. “But that’s not interesting at the moment. What’s the deal with you and Peter?” Seeing she won’t be deterred, you let out a sigh of resignation, looking back up at the ceiling.

“Okay, so we were drinking together a few weeks ago, and I was complaining about not getting laid, and then about being single, and then I kissed him, and it…escalated. Then a couple days later he got me off in the library and we decided to make it a regular thing.” Jean’s staring at you incredulously, and you flush slightly in embarrassment. “Don’t you judge me, Grey. I _like_ getting laid regularly and now I’ve got a good thing going.”

“Hey, no judgement here. But like, what kind of ‘thing’ are you talking about, like specifically?” She presses, and you raise an eyebrow at her.

“I’m pretty sure we’ve already established that by ‘thing’ I mean sex, or do you want details of that too?” You ask, and she quickly raises her hands in defence.

“ _No_ , no, no I’m quite alright without _those_ details. I mean what did you decide on? Is this a just-sex kind of deal, or what?” She explains and you nod in understanding.

“The general idea is that we’re not dating, just sleeping together, we don’t tell anyone else about it, and if it starts getting complicated or feeling-y then we call it off.” You tick off the rules on your fingers as you go, and Jean rolls over to look at you directly, frowning slightly.

“If it _starts_ getting complicated? This is already complicated as hell, so you’ve kind of fucked that one already,” She says, sounding concerned, and now it’s your turn to roll your eyes.

“It’s not that complicated. It’ll be fine,” You say, dismissively, but she doesn’t look convinced.

“Are you sure you know what you’ve gotten yourself into?” She asks, and you roll onto your side to face her.

“Jean.” Your voice is patient and slow, as if you were speaking to a small child. “I know what I’m doing. It’ll be fine.”

“You’re lying to yourself, but whatever.”

“I’m not lying to myself,” you insist, scowling at her in mock irritation and she chuckles.

“Not yet, you’re not.” She grins wolfishly at you and you sit up and swing your legs over the side of her bed, rising to your feet as you fix her with a reproving stare.

“I’m going to bed because it’s late and you’re clearly fixated on my sex life, so I’ll leave you to that,” you inform her loftily as you gather up your notes and start to leave. “I’m not going to suddenly sprout feelings for Peter. It’ll be fine.”

As you fall asleep that night, the conversation slips to the back of your mind and stays there for the next month or so, just out of reach.

* * *

The routine you and Peter fall into is an easy one, and it forms without either of you really meaning it to. You sleep together with relative frequency, and the habit somehow worked its way into your daily schedule, slotting tidily around classes, training and work. Your lives fit together with an almost startling seamlessness, and if you had been paying attention to it, it might have alarmed you how naturally the sex worked with your routine. Your conversation with Jean doesn’t rise to the front of your thoughts again until one night Peter wakes you up in the middle of the night because he can’t sleep.

There’s a quiet knock at your door, barely loud enough to wake you, and then he’s slipping into your room, closing the door behind him. It doesn’t take you very long to figure out what he’s here for, because scarcely a moment after you reach blindly over turn on your bedside light, Peter is pushing you back against your pillows, his mouth pressing demandingly against yours. His hands slip up your sides under your pyjama shirt as his arms wrap tightly around you, hauling your body up against his. He nips insistently at your neck and jaw as you hurriedly try and rid you both of your clothes, and when he pushes into you, his thrusts are rough and quick, and as soon as one of his hands moves down your body to rub hard circles over your clit, it’s over. Your muscles coil and relax around him and you let out a long shuddery breath as your orgasm trails off, leaving you limp and exhausted. Peter presses a last, fond kiss to the side of your neck before rolling off of you, pushing his hair off his face.

You expect him to re dress and leave, to head back to his room for the night, but he doesn’t. As you lean over to flick the light off, you feel his weight shift on the small mattress behind you, and you think he’s getting up to leave, so you settle down into your pillows and try to go back to sleep. Instead, you feel Peter tuck himself neatly behind you, one of his arms coming around to rest over the curve of your waist. His breath is warm and slow on the back of your neck, and you hear a faintly mumbled ‘g’night’ as he falls asleep, but you know that any possibility of you getting enough rest that night has just been shot to hell.

This is a new development, and you’re pretty sure it shouldn’t feel this natural. You haven’t really ‘cuddled’ after sex, and you were fine with keeping it that way. Fucking each other was one thing, but the idea of just holding one another felt somehow even more intimate than sex, and lying here now with Peter’s body pressed protectively against yours, you decide that you were definitely right. This feels somehow more dangerous than just sleeping together. As you idly listen to his slow even breathing, Jean’s voice slips traitorously to the front of your mind and you start to entertain the possibility that maybe you were wrong when you said you wouldn’t develop feelings for him. The weight of the dark room is tense with possibility as you try unsuccessfully not to imagine what it could be like if you were actually dating Peter. The more you begrudgingly consider the idea, the less opposed to it you feel, and you lie awake long into the night, hyperaware of Peter’s sleeping form behind you as the reality of the situation you’ve managed to create sinks in.

The next morning, you wake up to his breath hot on your neck as his hand slips under the hem of your shirt, rubbing circles over your hip before starting to trail deliberately down past the waistband of your pyjama pants and into your panties. Your breath catches in your chest as he brushes a knuckle over your clit, hooking his foot around your ankle and hitching your leg over his, parting your thighs as he slowly pushes two fingers past your slick folds, crooking them slightly as you roll your hips back against his hand and a low moan falls from your mouth. Peter’s fingers are twisting and curling inside you with increasing rapidity  and he’s pressing hot, open mouthed kisses along the back of your neck and shoulder as he tentatively adds a third finger. The increased pressure makes you keen and buck, grinding back against him as come hard, your head falling back against the pillows. Peter pulls away, withdrawing his hand from your panties and you lie back for a few seconds, breathing hard before rolling over to face him, and you’re pretty sure your jaw actually drops, because he’s licking his fingers clean, plump lips moving efficiently over the long, slender digits.

“You want me to return the favour?” You ask, voice less even than you’d like it to be, but he just shoots you a shit eating grin as he sits up and rises to his feet, grabbing his sweats off the floor beside your bed and pulling them on.

“Nah, it’s all good. You can just owe me one,” Peter replies, dismissively. “Seriously, I’ll cash in later or something,” he adds as you sit up, looking incredulously at him. “I’ll see you later,” he says, voice casual as he leans in to drop a quick kiss to your temple before leaving your room. Your hand flies unconsciously to the side of your face as you stare helplessly at your closed door, unable to fight the sinking feeling that you were entirely wrong about not sprouting feelings for your best friend.

The rest of the day passes without consequence, because you do everything in your power to avoid seeing Peter. You get to all your classes early and sit with Jean, ducking your head when he comes in to avoid making eye contact. You don’t go to lunch, just opting to stay in your room and listen to your music turned up loud in the futile hope that maybe loud music will make your thoughts slow down a little. Dinner can’t be avoided though, and the tense silence between the two of you is almost too much for you to bear, and the longer it drags on the more effort it takes you to remain where you are and not just bolt for your room, so when you see Jean approaching, a sympathetic smile on her face, you almost want to cry with relief.

“Hey Peter. (Y/N), I have those notes from English you wanted, if you wanna go over them now,” she says, and you rise quickly to your feet, grabbing your plate from the table and shooting Peter an apologetic look.

“Yeah, sorry I forgot about that, thanks. Peter I’ll see you later,” you excuse yourself, putting your plate aside to be washed up and walking out of the dining hall with Jean.

She leads you up to her room and pushes you firmly down to sit on her bed, looking at you expectantly.

“Don’t even bother trying to tell me everything’s fine. What’s up?” She prompts you, and you take a reluctant, steadying breath as you flop back across her bedspread.

“Feelings suck and you were right and I don’t know what to do,” you sigh, not looking at her, and you feel the mattress shift beneath you as she lies down next to you.

“You know you have to end it, right?” Jean says gently, and you swallow hard, still staring blankly up at her ceiling, because you know she’s right, but that doesn’t mean you want to do anything about it.

“This blows,” you whisper after a long silence, your voice shaky. The lump in your throat hasn’t gone away and you can feel tears pricking the backs of your eyes and you kind of want to scream, because since when has Peter been able to get under your skin like this. Jean grabs your hand, squeezing supportively, and the sympathy helps, but you don’t want sympathy, you want to go back in time and stop yourself from kissing Peter.

“Do you love him?” The question abruptly cuts off your spiral of self-pity, because for all that you’ve been hit with the realisation of your feelings for him, you haven’t actually tried to qualify them.

“I don’t know,” you reply after a while, and your vision is blurry with tears that you don’t even try to brush away at this point. “I don’t want to break it off,” you choke out, bringing your free hand up to swipe angrily at the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. “What do I do, Jean?” You’re almost embarrassed by how small and helpless your voice sounds, but Jean just rolls over to face you, wrapping you in a comforting hug and pulling you in to rest your head on her shoulder.

“It’s not fair on yourself to keep going like this. It was part of the agreement you two made, remember? It’ll be okay. You’ll be okay,” she hums soothingly, and you just shrug limply, because what could you possibly say to that? It doesn’t feel like it’ll be okay. It feels like your entire world got flipped overnight and now you don’t know which way is up. It feels like you knew what a god awful idea this was right from the start and you still let it happen. It doesn’t feel anywhere even remotely close to the realm of ‘okay’, but the entire situation is mostly your fault, so what the fuck are you supposed to do about that.

“Maybe,” is all you say. You spend the night in Jean’s room because there’s no chance of Peter coming to find you, and even though you’re exhausted, you don’t sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning feels like hell, because it’s not any easier to face Peter now that you’ve actually figured out how you feel about him. You spend the day avoiding him as much as possible without actually skipping any of your classes. You sit with Jean or with Jubilee or with Ororo, or really anyone other than Peter, because even being close to him feels dangerous. It’s like you instinctively gravitate towards him, like you have an unconscious need to be near him, and when you make eye contact with him and your heart actually stutters in your chest, it’s like your body is at war with its self. The insidious voice of reason at the back of your mind tells you that you have to end it, but you can’t bring yourself to tell Peter that you want to call it off, because you don’t want it to be over. You know that the pretence of intimacy you get from sleeping with him isn’t enough, that it’ll start to hurt more and more as you try to come to terms with the idea of being able to be with him, but not actually have him.

The week immediately after your second conversation with Jean feels more like a decade, each day dragging on with torturous sluggishness. You don’t sleep with Peter, you don’t hang out with him; you barely talk to him, if it can be avoided. Putting off the actual conversation about the arrangement isn’t going to make it any less painful when you finally bring it up, but up until that actually happens, you can still pretend to yourself that you’re going to be able to kiss him and be near him and pretend, just for a moment, that the two of you are in love. That it isn’t just sex.

That Friday, you’re sitting cross legged on his bed, waiting for Peter to come back from training. You’re staring blankly at the wall and revising in your mind what you’re going to tell him and doing your best not to cry. It’s mostly working, for the moment, but you can’t stop yourself from listening intently to the sounds of footsteps in the corridor outside and wondering how long you have till he arrives. Your entire body tenses up as the handle starts to turn and the door opens, because you told yourself that you were ready to do this, and that you’d be able to have this conversation, but when Peter walks into the room, all of the determination you had carefully scraped together falls apart. All you can pay attention to are his hunched shoulders, and the pinched, tired lines of his face, and the way he doesn’t look like he has any kind of energy or willpower or strength in him, and even though you told yourself you wouldn’t, you can’t help yourself as you rise to your feet and walk over to him. Neither of you has said a word yet, but as you grab the hem of his shirt and pull it gently over his head, he gives you a small, grateful smile. He kicks off his pants and you take hold of his wrist, tugging him towards the bathroom and turning on the shower.

As the water heats up, you pull your own clothes off before stepping over the edge of the shower and letting the steam envelop you. Peter steps in behind you, but you don’t turn to face him, instead idly tracing the lines of the shower tiles with a finger and trying to remind yourself that fucking him one last time isn’t going to make this any easier. His hands go to your hips, pulling you to him gently so that his chest is pressed against your back, and as you feel his lips ghost over the juncture of your neck, you allow your eyes to flutter closed, your head falling back against his shoulder. His arms tighten around you and one of his hands starts to trail deliberately downwards, fingertips brushing lightly over your clit before rubbing almost tentatively over your slit before slowly pushing in, making you arch back against him responsively as a low sigh leaves your lips. It’s only been a week since the last time the two of you slept together, but he’s touching you like you’re something unfamiliar to him, like you’re breakable, and the thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, even as you roll your hips back against his hard on, urging his fingers deeper. Peter’s arm tightens around your waist and he’s mouthing hotly at your neck and clavicle as his fingers curl deliberately inside of you, his thumb nudging at your clit, making you shiver and tense against him as your orgasm washes over you. You can feel his hot breath fanning across your shoulder as you lean heavily on him and try to forget what you have to do when this is over.

“Your turn,” you say quietly, your voice shakier than you would have liked as you finally turn to face him, one hand rising to cradle the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair as you pull him down to kiss him long and slow and serious. It feels like a goodbye, but you try not to think about that. His hands settle on your waist, keeping you close as he kisses you back, brow furrowed and tongue sliding against yours. Your other hand slips down his slick torso, brushing over his abdomen till you’re gripping his cock lightly and Peter gasps slightly against your mouth, hips jerking erratically at your touch. Pumping him slowly, you take his bottom lip between your teeth, nipping at it gently. He draws away from the kiss, letting out a rough, needy moan as his head falls forwards against your shoulder and he presses an almost chaste kiss to the hollow of your throat as you continue to work him with your hand. One of his arms unwinds it’s self from your body as he starts to kiss deliberately down from your clavicle to your chest, dipping his head to suck a mark in the valley between your breasts, his free hand coming up to knead one of them gently. You suck in a sharp breath, your head falling back against the shower wall as you feel his lips close over one of your nipples, teeth just barely grazing the skin. The water cascades over your face and down your body, and everything feels like it could be happening in slow motion as you feel Peter’s hips buck slightly against your hand and then his long fingers close over your wrist, tugging your hand up.

“Not like this,” he mutters. His voice is muffled against your skin, but you know what he wants as you card your fingers through his hair and pull him up to kiss him again. His knee presses up between your thighs, nudging your feet wider, the hand on your waist encouraging you to grind down against his thigh, making you moan at the friction.

“Peter, please,” you whine against his mouth, and you feel him nod slightly as he shifts against you, and then you feel his tip brush against the apex of your thighs, coaxing a breathy whimper from you. “ _Please_ ,” you repeat, a note of desperation in your voice as he adjusts his position before starting to push into you slowly. Your back is pressed against the shower tiles and Peter’s lips are hot against the column of your throat as he begins to grind his hips into yours. The steam from the shower makes everything feel vaguely distant, and all you can think about is how his body feels pressed against yours, even though in the back of your mind you can hear a quiet, traitorous voice whispering ‘ _the last time, the last_ _time_ ’. His fingers are digging into your lower back as he pulls you impossibly closer, one hand hooking under one of your thighs, hitching it higher and changing the angle of his thrusts, making you writhe and shudder against him, lips parting in a helpless, needy sigh. His teeth graze against the juncture of your neck as he slips a hand between your bodies, palming at your breast before working its way downwards to brush a knuckle over your clit. The new pressure leaves you breathless and your head tips back against the shower wall as you begin to clench around him in orgasm, your muscles tensing and uncoiling as Peter grinds his hips hard against yours one last time before he cums, his entire body going momentarily rigid and then slumping tiredly against you, his head resting against your shoulder as his grip on your hips loosens.

The water has run cold as he gently tilts your chin up to kiss you before pulling away and stepping out of the shower, reaching for a towel to wrap around himself. You watch him go, fingertips brushing lightly over your lips as if trying to preserve the feeling of his mouth on yours. After a moment, you reluctantly reach over to shut off the water and step out of the shower, winding a spare towel around yourself and telling yourself that your shivering has everything to do with the cold water and nothing to do with what you have to tell Peter. As you pull your sweatpants up your legs, drops of water from your still damp hair trickling down your back, you hear the door creak and something fabric lands on the floor and then the door closes again. Turning around you see Peter has passed one of his hoodies through the door, and as you pick it up before exiting the bathroom and sling it around your shoulders with tentative, slightly shaking hands, you kind of want to cry, because it smells like him and it feels like safety, but you know you can’t keep it, no matter how much you might want to.

“Hey, Peter,” you start, your voice quiet and wobbly. “Can we-I think we should-It’s probably for the best-” you try to get the words out, but you just can’t, and you feel tears prick the backs of your eyes as he looks at you inquisitively, silently urging you on, so you take a deep, steadying breath and keep going. “I think we should stop sleeping together.”

The silence that follows doesn’t last more than a couple of seconds in reality, but it feels like a slow century as you fidget with the sleeves of Peter’s hoodie and focus on looking anywhere but at him. You put a lot of thought into what you would do if he got angry; if he refused. It wasn’t until this moment that you even considered the idea that he would just let you go. That he would accept it and flash you his usual troublemaker smile and let you walk out the door without an argument. As you wait for some kind of reaction from him, you decide that that would certainly be the easier response, but it would definitely hurt more, because you’re in love with him, and the idea that he could just let you walk away from him feels like a knife in the back. You still can’t meet his eyes, or even look at him at all, so it takes you by surprise when he finally says something.

“Why?” Peter asks softly, and you’re not sure whether the faint note of betrayal in his voice is real or imaginary, but even the possibility that he wants to be close to you soothes the theoretical ache of the idea that he didn’t care what you did with him. You hear him hesitantly start towards you and then stop himself before he reaches you. “Why?” he repeats, just as quietly as before.

“I just-I’m-This is fucking with our friendship. Remember the rules? I’ve barely spoken to you for like, a week, and this is probably why. So I just-God, I don’t know. I just think we should stop.” Your gaze is firmly fixed on the floor and it’s taking every fibre of determination in you to stop yourself from either flinging yourself at him or running out the door. Instead you just stay where you are, feet frozen in place.

“Yeah,” he breathes, and you’re mostly sure that you’re not imagining the unsteadiness of his voice. “The rules. Okay sure, yeah we can stop. I just-I mean-why? Was it something I did? I can do things differently. We can change the rules or whatever if that’s what’s bothering you. I can try something else, I just-” Peter’s voice is rising in pitch and taking on a tone of desperation as he continues, and then cuts himself off suddenly. “Just tell me why.” Your entire body is screaming at you to _do_ something, like run away or tell him to stop, tell him that you just don’t want him like that anymore; anything but tell him the truth. You can actually pinpoint the exact moment your sense of self-preservation loses the battle with your impulse, because you can feel the hot tears spill over your cheeks and your hands are shaking, and for the first time since Peter walked out of the bathroom, you can meet his gaze.

“Because it’s killing me that all we do is fuck and pretend we’re still friends and that nothing is different between us, because I don’t just want to be fuck buddies with you. So, at this point, for me, it’s either call this whole shitshow off or make it a real relationship, because I think I’m in love with you and I don’t want to keep fucking if I can’t actually be dating you,” you say evenly, knuckles white as you clutch at the sleeves of his hoodie, looking directly at him, even though you think your heart is about to pound out of your chest as the tension in the room grows. If you had thought the first silence was a five second century, this one is a long, excruciating eternity, and you can’t bring yourself to look away from Peter, scrutinizing him for any kind of reaction.

“You love me?” His voice is impossibly soft and utterly inscrutable and you can’t make your vocal cords work, and you don’t trust yourself not to just break down if you try to speak, so you just nod, feeling fresh tears drip steadily down your face. There’s another long, tense pause, and you’re about two seconds from throwing yourself through the door or maybe out the window; anything to avoid facing his rejection, when his eyes light up, and he crosses the room to you in two quick strides and then his hands are cradling your face and his lips are on yours and he’s _kissing_ you and nothing else in the world matters. Your hands fist in his t shirt in an attempt to pull him closer to you, your brow furrowed as you lose yourself a little in the kiss, because you’ve kissed him before but this is so monumentally different from all those other times. This one feels like a rush of pure exhilaration, like fireworks, like _home_.

When he pulls back, he’s looking at you like you hung the moon just for him, and his thumbs gently brush the tears from your cheeks, and his breathing is shaky as he rests his forehead against yours, a small, tender smile curving his lips.

“I love you too.”


End file.
